Now all the Youth of England are on Fire,
And silken Dalliance in the Wardrobe lies;
Now thrive the Armourers and Honour's Thoguht
Reigns solely in the Breast of every Man.
A braver choice of Dauntless Spirits
Than now the British Bottoms have waft o'er,
Did never float upon the swelling Tide.
Let there then follow (if base traitors dare it)
The proud Controul of fierce & bloody War—
Here have we War for War & Blood for Blood,
Controulmt for Controulmt—Shake France & Rome
By Heaven, methinks, it were an easy Leap
To pluck bright Honour from ye pale-fac'd Moon;
Or dive into the Bottom of the Deep,
Where fathom-Line could never touch ye Ground,
And pluck up drowned Honour by the Locks.
Time serves, wherein you may redeem
Your banish'd Honours & restore yourselves
Into the good Thoughts of the World again,
And make your Chronicles as rich with Praise
As is the Owse & Bottom of the Sea
With sunken Wrack, & sumles Treauries.
Think then upon the Conquests of your Fathers,
And like true subject Sons of ye Progenitors
Go cheerfully together, & digest
Your angry Choler on your Rebel Enemies.
Shadow your Right under your Wings of War;
You've only but the Corps-base Highland pilferers.
But Shadows & the Shews of Men to fight
Who thrill & shake, Highland & French Men both.
Even at the crying of your nation's Crow,
Thinking that Voice an armed Englishman.
Submission—tis a Scotch plad traytors Word—
You English Warriors wot not what it means.
If Englishmen Eer beg, they beg Mortality,
Rather than Life preserv'd with Infamy.
Fly to your Highlands, Rebels—sue for peace
If not—& treason dares to Wait ye Chastisement,
Bleed traitors & fair Peace ascend to Heaven,
Whilst we correct your proud defiance
That beats God's Peace to Heaven.
Georgius secundus Maj: Brit: Rex.
Jacobus secundus Maj: Brit: tyrannus.
Do Homage, quit ye
Dupes of France & Rome
And we'll withdraw us & our bloody Power,
But if you frown upon this proffer'd Peace,
And tempt the fury of our three Attendants,
Lean Famine, quartering Steel, wide spreading Fire;
They in a Moment even with the Earth
Shall lay your dupes yourselves & all your hopes.
For heark—the English Drum, a warning Bell,
Sings heavy Musick to your timorous Souls,
And soon shall ring your dire Departure out.
On either Hand there are Squadrons pitcht
To wall You from the Liberty of flight.
Death doth front You with apparent Spoil,
And pale Destruction meets You in the Face.
You're girded with a waste of Iron,
And hem'd about with grim Destruction.
Our Cannons have their Bowels full of Wrath,
And ready mounted are they to spit forth
Their iron Indignation 'gainst your Banks
Sweep like a Peacock, Charles, along thy Tail,
We'll pull thy Plumes & take away thy Train.
Our forward Spirits rais'd by George & Liberty
Will lift us where most Trade of Danger ranges,
Rome's Terror, France's Bloody Scourge.
Revenge aghast shall paint with Slaughter's Pencil
The Whirlwind Fury of incensed Englishmen
Our threatening Colours, Britons, then wind up:
And tame the savage Spirit of wild War;
That like a Lyon foster'd up at hand,
It may lie gently at the Foot of Peace,
And be no farther harmful than in Shew.
Till out attempt be so much glorified,
As to our ample hope was promised,
Before we drew this gallant Head of War,
And cull'd those fiery Spirits from the World
To out-look Conquest & to win Renown
Even in the Jaws of Danger & of Death.
For—Plot Rome, threat France, frown Spain, Ioin all
Come the three Corners of the World in Arms,
And we shall shock them—Nought can make us rue,
If England to it self doth rest but true.